


The Two of Us

by twistedrunes



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Long Live Feedback Comment Project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrunes/pseuds/twistedrunes
Summary: Prompt: Do you have any hc for Tommy having a female best friend?? Can be strictly platonic or not, up to you.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	1. When I think of you sometime

\- It was destiny really that you and Tommy were best friends. Born 2 days apart, living next door to each other. You literally grew up together. 

\- You regularly slept together as infants, often playing until you just dropped wherever you were. Curled up with each other like puppies. 

\- You spent so much time together you came up with your own language. You were chattering away to each other for ages before either of you felt the need to talk to anyone else. 

\- On the first day of school, you walked in the gate hand-in-hand. Only to get into trouble for touching. 

\- Put into different classes you had cried and cried when they tried to split you up. You had to be physically separated, clinging desperately to each other. As soon as he had been released Tommy ran to you, bursting into the room and cuddling you. He had calmed you, promising everything would be okay and that you would see each other at recess and lunchtime. 

\- slowly you had made other friends, but you were still best friends. You still walked to and from school with each other

\- Your bedrooms were on the other side of the wall to each other. When you were ten you dug a small hole between the rooms so you could talk to each other at night. 

\- You’d stay up talking for hours, imagining things together

\- As you got older you both dated other people. But neither of you really developed any long-term relationships. 

\- You were still best friends knowing as much about the other as yourself.

\- Tommy left school before you. Going to work with his dad. You saw him less after that. Tommy trying to keep you away from both his father and their illegal activities. 

\- But you’d still talk through the wall at night. 

\- When the war came, he joined up and so did you. You had already been a nursing school so the decision to volunteer was an easy one. 

\- You wrote to each other whenever you had time. Sharing as much as you could with each other, things you would never share with the people back home. You were assigned to a mobile hospital and so moved around often. So it wasn’t unusual to not get letters for weeks, but then get all of them at once. Whenever you would receive the bundle of letters you would breathe a little easier knowing Tommy was still alive. 

\- After a long day in the hospital treating man after man affected by mustard gas you were emotionally and physically drained when you arrive back at your quarters. You were excited to see the bundle of letters on your bunk. It took only moments for your joy to turn to grief. They were your letters, all marked undeliverable. 

\- For weeks after you went through the motions, constantly trying to remind yourself that no-one from home had written to tell you Tommy had died. 

\- When you heard some soldiers talking about a tunnel collapse where everyone was buried alive. You could barely get the words out to ask if it was Tommy’s regiment. When they had said it was you had fainted. 

\- After that, you were transferred to a repatriation hospital in the South of England. Then back to France, moving between units often. You stopped getting mail from anyone. 

\- The war ended and the soldiers went home and so did you eventually, you volunteered to help with the evacuations of the wounded. Then volunteering in the repatriation hospitals. You knew for the men you worked with the war would never end, leaving parts of themselves in France, limbs, sight, minds or innocence. Everyone had lost something. 

\- You didn’t even consider returning to Small Heath, there was no reason to, your parents had died, and you were busy with your work. It made you feel needed and stopped you thinking of what the war had taken from you. 

\- As the war became a memory for some you found yourself missing your best friend more and more. Seeing Tommy in doorways, in stores, in hallways and on the street.

\- So when you thought you saw him outside the nurse quarters you ignored the smoking figure and carried on. You stopped short when the imaginary man spoke. 

_“_ Been so long you’ve forgotten what your best friend looks like ‘ey or are ya just too good for a Brummy boy now you live in London.” He says looking up at you. 

One look in his eyes and you knew this was no figment of your imagination. It was Tommy, your Tommy. “But, you,” you gasp, grabbing at the wall as your knees give up on you. 

Tommy was beside you in an instant holding you tightly and you were five years old again, back in Small Heath at school bawling because they tried to take your best friend away. “Shush, shush it’s okay. What’s the matter, love?”

“I thought you died, all the letters and they said the tunnel collapsed and” you can no longer talk sobbing. 

“I’m not that easy to kill, you should know that.” Tommy jokes as if you had seen him yesterday. “Plus who would keep an eye on you if I was gone?”

You shower him with kisses all over his face. Tommy laughs. Once you finish your frenzy, Tommy takes your face in his hands, kissing you as you’ve never kissed before. And suddenly everything is right with the world. 


	2. When the morning comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How would you feel if your best friend returned from the dead?  
> Would you have questions or would you simply accept your good fortune?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece carries on directly from the previous chapter.

A giggle bursts the blissful bubble surrounding you and Tommy. Suddenly aware of where you are, you step back, hands fussing with your hair and uniform. You spin around, just in time to catch the two trainee nurses, wide eyed and sniggering into their hands as they hurry inside the quarters. From the corner of your eye, you notice the curtains of Matron’s office move.

Flustered, you turn back to Tommy shaking your head “Not here.”

“I am here,” He murmurs softly, taking your hand and placing it on his chest holding it in place with his own. “I’m here.” He repeats attention focused entirely on you.

“No,” you say, looking back at the door which had closed behind the trainees, “you shouldn’t be here.”

Tommy’s free hand glides along your jaw, turning you to face him, his thumb brushing your cheek when you finally meet his gaze. The golden light of the autumn afternoon softening his features a little. “I came back.” He says with a husky hum, moving closer to kiss you again.

Regretfully you avoid his kiss and place a hand on his chest to gently push him away. “Please Tommy, men aren’t allowed,” you try to explain.

“Let me take you somewhere,” Tommy offers, finally seeming to understand.

“Where?” You ask, head snapping back to look at the door as you hear the hinges squeak.

“Anywhere, fuck I don’t care.” Tommy falters, realising he’s not got your full attention.

“Fuck,” You mutter as Matron fills the doorway, arms folded over her ample bosom.

“Sister, is this man bothering you?” She asks, her voice clear and firm. Without pausing for your response, she looks over your head and fixes Tommy in her steely gaze. “I will not hesitate to call the police.”

“No, thank you, Matron, there’s no need. He’s just a friend.” You reply hastily.

Matron arches her eyebrow but remains in the doorway.

You turn your attention back to Tommy “I’m sorry,” you begin to apologise.

“Just come talk to me for a bit ‘ey?” Tommy implores, his hand reaching for your face again, but stopping short of making contact.

“I can’t,” you say helplessly.

Tommy takes your shoulders in his hands, “Please,” A look of pain creasing his forehead.

“Sister?” The Matron calls sharply.

“In a moment,” You say, too quickly and too sharply. You close your eyes for a moment, Tommy’s hands slip into his pockets, and you fix a smile on your face before turning towards the door again. “I’m sorry Matron, this is my friend, Mr Shelby,”

The Matron’s face remains set and stern, as she cuts you off. “Perhaps your friend would be more comfortable at Sally’s?” You stare at her dumbly. “While you change?” Matron explains.

“Pardon?” you ask, still confused.

“Your friend, perhaps he would be more comfortable at the cafe while you get changed and freshen up.” The Matron repeats slowly, a hint of a smile turning the corners of her mouth. “That is if you wish to speak with him?”

“Yes. I do. I do want to speak to him.” You say quickly, finally realising what she is suggesting.

“Just up this way?” Tommy asks Matron, pointing up the road in the direction of the tea shop.

“Yes, on the corner you can’t miss it.” Matron replies.

Matron regards Tommy for a long moment before she turns her attention back to you, “Come on then Sister, chop, chop.” She directs with a little clap of her hands.

Training, more than anything else causes you to hurry towards the door. “Meet you there in half an hour?” You ask Tommy before you step over the threshold.

Tommy nods, giving you a little smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before looking up and meeting Matron’s eye. “Thank you.”

\---

It’s on the way to the cafe that the thought first comes to you. Why hadn’t Tommy written to you? He’d been alive all that time but hadn’t written. Why hadn’t you received a single letter from him? You push the idea to the back of your mind, telling yourself that you should just be grateful he’s here. Matron was always telling you; you think about things too much.

\---

“So, what brings you to London?” You ask Tommy, taking your place across from him at the small corner table in Sally’s Cafe. Nerves have gotten the better of you and for some reason, you can’t think of a single thing to say other than small talk.

“Business,” Tommy replies, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. There’s a new confidence in him. “We’re legitimate now, John got a licence.” He says a look of pride on his face as he shakes the match to extinguish it.

“That’s wonderful Tommy. How is he?”

“He’s good.”

“And Arthur?”

“Good.”

It’s all you can do not to sigh. You feel like you’re on one of the blind dates the girls at work kept arranging, the conversation just as forced and painful. In your mind the same thought keeps coming back; why hadn’t he written to you? You push the thought away. “Will you be in London long?”

“Not long, some business at the races. We’ll head back tomorrow.”

“Where are you staying?”

Tommy takes a long drag on his cigarette as his eyebrow arches airily “The Regatta.” A hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

That hint enough to push thoughts of why you hadn’t heard from him aside, letting you just enjoy the fact you were sitting again with your best friend. “Very posh.” You tease gently.

A waitress arrives with the tea, Tommy looks up, and thanks her. Neither of you speaks while she sets things on the table. You both reach for the teapot at the same time, Tommy’s hand closing over yours. Your breath catches as you’re reminded that this isn’t just some daydream, but your Tommy, alive and in the flesh, back from the dead. Your heart and mind race, and you feel yourself on the edge of tears. It’s all you can do not to fling yourself across the table at him. “I’ll pour.” You offer instead.

Tommy nods, taking a moment before he removes his hand from yours. He watches you while you pour. “Thank you.” He says as you set the teapot back down. He takes a sip, watching you over the edge of his cup. “It’s good.” He smiles. This time, for a moment, it reaches his eyes.

“Better than the tea I used to make back home.” You quip.

Tommy huffs a laugh “Not hard that, considering what you had to work with ‘ey? Lukewarm water with leaves that’d been reused four times. Tea in the Army was better.”

You nod in agreement, smiling as you remember the two of you playing house at your kitchen table. Things were much simpler then. “Not nearly as bad as the fuckin’ cigarette you made,” you remember with a snort. “It was more lint and hay than tobacco.”

“Top grade hay,” Tommy insists with a laugh.

“You damn near burnt your eyebrows off!” you laugh “And you burnt a hole in your coat when you tried to hide it from Arthur.”

Tommy grins, dimples forming on his cheeks. Warmth fills your chest at the sight. Reaching across the table Tommy takes your hand. “You tried to fix it for me though.”

“Lots of good that did, Pol spotted it from a mile away. I thought she was going to skin you alive!”

“She always had a sweet spot for you. Reckon that’s what saved me.”

Guilt twists your stomach making you feel sick, you set your cup down on your saucer. You’d been so angry with Polly, Ada too, furious that they hadn’t told you about Tommy. Of course, now you know there was nothing to tell, Tommy was alive and they had never thought any different. They probably had no idea you thought him dead. You smooth the tablecloth in front of you and don’t meet his eye, ashamed.

“They’d love to see you,” he says.

The waitress arrives with sandwiches for both of you. Tommy acknowledges her with a slight nod but doesn’t look away from you. To get out of his gaze you do, making eye contact with her as you thank her.

Tommy’s still looking at you, eyes wide as he waits for your response “A lot’s changed. You should come home, take a look for yourself.” He suggests once the waitress has moved away.

Your head drops, to look at the plate. “It’s not home anymore.” You reply glancing up. There’s a frown on Tommy’s face, more around the eyes than his mouth. “Work’s always so busy, it’s hard to get away.” It’s a weak excuse and you aren’t entirely sure why you make it. You take a mouthful of your sandwich so you can’t say anymore.

Tommy sits back, arm hanging over the back of the chair, sandwich untouched. “Must be, it seems there are babies being born all over at the moment.”

“Oh,” you’re hit by how different things are from the hopes and dreams you had when you were young. “No, I’m not a midwife. I work at the repatriation hospital, for those still recovering from the war.” You take another bite of your sandwich.

Tommy sits forward in his chair again, his fingers reaching out for your hand, brushing over your wrist. “There’s a lot of that around too,” he acknowledges, his voice softer.

You swallow hard, forcing the question you want to ask back down and replacing it with another. “How’s Ada?”

Tommy sits back in his chair again, but less relaxed, his body stiff. A sign he’s irritated, you could still read him like a book it seemed. “She’s good, misses you. So does Finn, and everyone else. Like I said they’d love to see you.” There’s irritation in his voice. He flexes his jaw, looking away from you for a moment before he takes the final mouthful of tea from his cup. “Shall I order another pot?” He offers, cooly.

You check your watch and shake your head. “No, I’d better be getting back to quarters. Matron will be wondering where I am. I’m on shift again tonight.”

“So soon? You’ve not finished your sandwich.” For a moment the coolness slips away.

“I’m not that hungry. I’m sorry, I’ve really got to get back.”

A hard look flits over Tommy’s face, but he recovers quickly and stands, crossing to the counter to pay while you gather your things. At the door, he helps you with your coat. He holds the door for you as you step out. Outside the door you both stop, neither able to properly look at the other.

“I’d better be going,” you say to break the long, uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll walk you,” Tommy says, it borders on an order rather than an offer. It makes you wonder who he’d become during the war.

“No, thank you.” You decline, Tommy’s lips purse slightly in irritation. “The others will be watching, it’s best if I’m alone.”

“I’d rather you didn’t walk around alone at night.” Tommy counters smoothly.

“It’s early evening at best.” You counter. There was nothing unusual in this routine, Tommy had always been protective, often maddeningly so. “I walk myself home regularly.”

The muscles stand out on Tommy’s jaw as he kisses his teeth and looks away. He flicks his hand in a way that seems to be dismissing you. “I’m sure.” You can’t miss the sarcastic tone.

It’s like a slap in the face. But your pain quickly turns to anger. How dare he come here as if nothing has happened in the past few years? As if you hadn’t been alone since the moment he left for the war. “I can look after myself.” You snap.

Tommy’s jaw twitches again before he looks down on you, his blue eyes hard. “Fuck! Why is this so difficult?”

“I thought you were dead Tommy,” You begin, but Tommy cuts you off.

“Yeah and it seems like you’d prefer it fucking stayed that way!” The ferocity of his words cut through you, crushing your heart, unable to bear it you turn and run. Not looking back as Tommy yells after you. “I thought you might have missed me. But, I’m just a friend, I was obviously fucking delusional to think you might be pleased to see me!”

\---

Gasping for breath, you crash through the front door of the quarters. You lean back against it, trying to compose yourself before anyone sees you. Matron appears a heartbeat later, holding open the door to her office.

“Sister,” it’s both a greeting and an instruction.

Resigned you trudge the few steps to her office. You’re surprised when she directs you to one of the wingback chairs by the fire rather than the straight-backed timber chair in front of her desk. You remain standing however and launch straight into your apology. “I’m sorry Matron, about earlier and now this,” you gesture to your face, before drawing a deep breath and rushing on with your explanation “I didn’t invite him, I didn’t even know,” You trail off, stopped by Matron raising her hand in front of you.

“Tea?” The Matron offers, as you fall quiet.

“Tea?” you repeat dumbly. Matron nods. “I have night shift.” You tell her.

“I’m aware. You have time, take a seat,” she instructs nodding towards the chair again. You follow her direction and move closer to the chair, but still don’t sit.

“He’s the man in the photo, in your room?” She asks as she removes the kettle from the fire. It’s not really a question, the Matron is observant and astute. “You were told he was killed in the war, weren’t you?”

Tears fill your eyes, and your throat tightens, so you nod.

“Praise be,” She says, her eyes casting upwards as she sets the kettle down and crosses herself.

Hot, silent tears roll down your cheeks, and you wrap your arms around yourself. A horrible truth ripping you apart.

“So, these are tears of joy?” She asks dryly, placing a cup of tea in your hands and gently guiding you down into the chair.

You shake your head. “It’s not a miracle Matron. If he had written, I would have known he wasn’t dead.” Your tone is decidedly bitter.

“Tsk,” Matron tuts. “The man survived. You survived. He found you. It’s a miracle.” She settles back in her chair, taking a sip of her tea.

This wasn’t your first time in Matron’s office. You knew from experience, that this was Matron’s way, tea and a patient ear. Not that she wasn’t a stickler for rules and discipline. No quarter was given for an unstarched collar or an unmade bed. But unlike many of her contemporaries, she understood her nurses had lives that weren’t always easy or without complication. Experience had taught her that those issues were better uncovered with quiet calm and solved with compassion.

You take a sip of your tea. “We had a fight.” You admit.

“Hmm?” Matron hums, retrieving a tin of biscuits from the drawer of the small side table and offering you one.

“We’ve never had a fight before,” you realise, taking a biscuit without thinking and placing it on your saucer. You sit holding your cup for a good minute before you feel you can speak. Matron waits calmly. “Not really a fight.” You pause again, “We just couldn’t seem to understand each other. When we were young, we didn’t even need words, we just knew, and today,” you shrug unable to find words to describe the level of disconnection you had felt.

You sit watching the fire for a few moments, trying to gather your thoughts, to understand what had happened. You find yourself floundering. “I can’t tell you how many times I dreamed.” You stop yourself. “They were silly little fantasies really, about him coming home. Seeing each other again,” You pause again, “I’m not a fool, I never thought it would be the same as before. Not just that we were adults now, I know France changed me, I’m sure it changed him too. But I never imagined we’d lose the connection we had. Ever. It was awful today, stilted, like there was this, wall between us.” You pause, thinking that even as children a wall hadn’t stopped your connection, you had found a way. You chew your lip trying to stop a fresh round of tears.

“I ruined it.” You admit sorrowfully. “The whole time all I could think was why did he stop writing to me. He was alive, so why didn’t he write? Just one letter and I would have known he was alright. Why couldn’t I just be grateful?” You wrap your arms around yourself.

Matron puts down her cup and places her warm hand on your knee.

Biting the inside of your lip, you blink rapidly and look again at Matron’s face, it’s kind and warm and open. “I think he was upset that I introduced him to you as just my friend.” You emphasise the just, as Tommy had. “I didn’t mean it like that, I know men aren’t allowed, and I was trying to explain to you that he wasn’t someone who needed to be sent away, that he wasn’t an unwelcome suitor.” You look across at Matron hoping she understands.

She nods, but still offers no council.

The grandfather clock in the hall begins its deep percussion to alert you to the time. A reminder that life must, as always, go on. “I better go get ready for my shift.” You say standing.

Matron stands as you do, moving to the door and placing her hand on the handle but not turning it. “The war changed everyone it touched, yourself included.” This time it’s you that nods but adds nothing. Matron turns the door handle but pauses again still not opening it, bringing her other hand to your shoulder. “Perhaps he had dreamt of a different reunion too.”

\---

Her words stay with you throughout your shift. You oscillate between anger at Tommy and yourself, then spiralling from anger into despair. You keep it all inside while you dress wounds, while you offer comfort and once while you offered prayer. The prayer felt like a fraud, it had for a long time. You could no longer believe in a good and benevolent God after France. Each act of your vocation had seemed to carry extra weight and by the end of your shift, it was all you could do to drag yourself back to quarters.

Tired and drained you climb the stairs to your room, bypassing the dining room and your colleagues eating breakfast. Hoping to just sneak to bed with no-one noticing. As your foot hits the stop stair Matron calls out to you.

“Sister, may I have a moment?”

“Yes, Matron.” Your reply dull but compliant. The journey down the stairs is just as exhausting. Matron steps back into her office, rather than watch your descent. You follow her inside. Entering the first thing you notice are the yellow roses in the ornate vase on Matron’s desk. Your favourite flower, another dagger in the heart. Tommy had once promised, when you had seen a similar bouquet in a florist’s window as a child and been awed by their beauty, that when he was a man and had money, he would buy you some. You’d teased him that he would just steal them.

“Mr Shelby came to see you last night.” Matron interrupts your memory, standing and gesturing to the flowers. “He brought these.”

You sigh, “I told him I was working,”

Matron holds up her hand, stopping your apology. Between her fingers a small envelope. “He left this as well.” She says holding it out to you.

You take the envelope, smiling as you note the florists mark on the back of the envelope. The small card reads, simply Not stolen T. The familiar handwriting brings more tears to your eyes. You knew it was an apology, of sorts, even with you Tommy had never been very good at them. You were sure it was because of all the times he’d been forced to apologise to his father, and that those apologies still didn’t appease the monster who would beat him anyway.

“Matron?” you take a deep breath unsure how to continue.

“He and I spoke, briefly, I think you should go see him before he goes back to Birmingham.”

“What did he say?” You ask, stunned.

“Nothing he can’t tell you himself, if you’re quick. Do you know where he’s staying?” Matron enquires.

“Um, yes, the Regatta.” You remember.

“Quickly then, upstairs and change and I’ll call you a cab.” Matron instructs. You don’t move. “Come on, chop, chop.” Matron claps her hands and you turn for the door. “Your flowers,” Matron says.

Quickly you turn back carefully picking up the vase. “Thank you, Matron.”

\---

Your heart is pounding as you make your way down the long hall, counting off room numbers as you pass. At 211 you stop, raise your hand and stop again. Your turn and walk back down the hall, almost to the elevator before you stop again. Squaring your shoulders, you stride back to room 211 and knock on the door.

Nothing.

The manager had told you Tommy hadn’t checked out, so you knock again.

Nothing.

Heart sinking you decide to try one more time. You knock, pressing your ear to the door to see if you can hear any movement inside. “Tommy? Tommy, it’s Lyra.”

Nothing.

You close your eyes, unsure what to do. The ding of the elevator brings you to your senses, Tommy didn’t want to see you. You resign yourself and start to walk back down the hall. You fix your eyes firmly on the ornate carpet, afraid that making eye contact with another soul may just break you.

“Lyra?”

Your head snaps up at the familiar, husky voice. “Tommy?”

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asks, surprised.

“I got your flowers,”

“Did I get you in trouble?” Tommy asks, hand rubbing over the back of his head. For a moment he looks like the boy you remember.

“No. I told you I was working,”

“I thought you were blowing me off,” Tommy admits.

His statement makes you frown, sad again at the distance between you “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t.” You tell him wearily.

Tommy nods. Glancing back to the elevator as it dings again. “You want to come in?” He asks, gesturing towards his room.

You nod, “I think so.”

“I’d like you to,” Tommy says quietly, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back.

Once you’re inside he helps you with your coat, laying it on the bed carefully. Before he can remove his, you pluck a piece of hay from his collar. Up close you can smell the stale liquor and cigarette smoke, along with the sharp and acidic scent of opium. None of which are hidden by the softer smells of horse and hay. You hold up the piece of straw for him to see.

Tommy sighs. “I’ve got a business acquaintance; he’s got a stable, I went to have a look at the horses.”

You feel a tightness in your chest. The stables were always Tommy’s safe place; when things got bad at home, or at school. You always knew you would find him up at Charlie’s Yard, in with the horses. You brush some horsehair from his sleeve, knowing in your heart he’d spent the night in the stables. You move closer, this time to brush some dirt from his cheek.

Tommy turns his cheek as your hand makes contact, taking a step away to remove his coat. “I’d better clean up,” he jerks his head towards the closed door you assume opens to the bathroom.

He leaves the door of the bathroom open as he strips down to his undershirt, pushing up the sleeves to wash his face and hands. You sit, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. Nervous again. Fingers entwined, you close your eyes, offering, for the first time in a long time, a prayer. It was simple, but heartfelt, asking God that, this time you and Tommy would find a way to communicate. To connect like you used to.

As you open your eyes you see Tommy leaning against the doorway, rubbing his neck with a towel. He smiles a little. “You never used to be shy of seeing me in my underclothes.” He teases, but you can hear the caution in his voice.

You smile nervously in return. “No,” you say slowly, “but it’s been a long time.”

“Feels like forever,” Tommy says quietly.

“The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

“I paid for them,” Tommy says quickly. “Just like I promised.” He looks at you intently, the towel balled up in his hand.

“I know. They’re why I came.” Tommy’s eyes soften inviting you to go on. “You promised to buy me those flowers,” you pause “and I promised we’d always be friends.”

“We promised.” Tommy corrects you. “And we promised we would always talk about things.”

You nod solemnly, “Everything. No matter what.” You repeat the vow, the palm of your hand tingling where you had cut it to make your blood oath.

Tommy throws the towel onto the vanity, his thumb rubs over his own palm absently “Everything, no matter what.” He repeats.

Still, you sit for a long moment, looking down at your hands still clasped in your lap. “Why did you stop writing to me, Tommy?”

Silence follows, you look up at Tommy, who looks for a moment like he wants to run but closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and then speaks. “I thought you had found someone.”

Your eyes widen at the explanation as you find yourself even more confused. “But why would that matter? We’ve both dated before, that never stopped us being friends.”

Tommy shakes his head, running his hand through his hair before he pulls a cigarette case from his pocket. “My fuckin’ brothers.”

“What do they have to do with anything?”

Tommy pulls a cigarette from the case, offering one to you and putting the case away when you decline with a shake of your head. He watches you over the flame of the match as he holds it to the tip. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs his reply comes in a cloud of smoke. “You know they love you like a sister, right?”

“I love them too,” you reply honestly. While you and Tommy were best friends you had always had an easy relationship with Arthur and John. Ada as a little girl had idolised you, desperate for another female to talk to and you had been close. Even little Finn felt like family.

“They’d always ask about you. Read your letters sometimes too.” Tommy takes another deep drag, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.

You wait for Tommy to keep speaking, but he seems lost in thought. “Tommy?”

“Them and their nonsense got me all mixed up in my head.” Tommy snaps frustratedly, motioning his hand up near his head. Before rubbing it over his face again. His breathing becomes more rapid. You begin to stand and reach out for him, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Tommy turns away banging his hand against the door frame. “Why was it so much easier to talk when we were kids?”

“Things were different. We were different.” You say moving closer. Tommy jolts away from the hand you are reaching out for him. Spinning away and grabbing hold of the sink as his jaw tenses and he glares at himself in the mirror.

“I’m different,” Tommy says flatly, he turns his head to face you, still gripping the sink so hard his knuckles are white. You hesitate outside the doorway unsure of what to do. Suddenly an idea strikes you and you pull the bathroom door closed between you.

“What are you doing?” Tommy asks, his tone unsure, worried, as he jiggles the handle.

“Making it easier,”

“We’re too old for games,” Tommy says with a sigh.

“It’s not a game, Tommy.” You assure him, leaning against the door. “When we were young, we used to talk through the wall, all our deepest secrets passed through that wall. Maybe that’s why it was easier. We couldn’t see each other.” There’s silence and then you feel a weight press against the other side of the door. “Tell me what happened with your brothers.” You encourage.

“We all got leave, in Paris, at the same time. John and Arthur got drunk,” his voice sounds close, warm through the timber.

“Of course,” you say, rolling your eyes, but still smiling fondly at the thought.

“Of course,” Tommy echo’s in a weary tone, before continuing with his story. “We were in some club. There were all-sorts there, Allied forces, not just soldiers but auxiliary staff too, nurses and clerks, lots of women. Lots of dancing, people going off with each other,” Tommy pauses.

“I know the kind of place,”

“Arthur asked how you were. I told him I hadn’t heard from you in a few weeks. John said you’d probably found someone. I said that it didn’t matter if you had that we would still be friends, that you were probably just busy, or the post was slow.” Tommy’s speaking in a monotone, relaying facts. You close your eyes realising how happy you were just to hear his voice and feel his weight on the other side of the door.

“I danced with this girl for a bit and when we were having a drink back at the table she asked if she could write to me.” Tommy stops again, you can hear him breathing as he gathers his thoughts. “John made some smartass comment about how I already had a pen pal. Then Arthur made a big production about how it was okay because you would understand, we were just friends. Poor girl took off like a shot.”

You feel the gentle thud of what you imagine is Tommy’s head pressing against the door. “Did you like her?” you ask kindly.

“She was nice enough I suppose, but no, not really,” Tommy says plainly. “Arthur said that it would be like that for you. If you were seeing someone and they got wind of our writing that they’d run a mile. Said I’d be doing you a kindness if I stopped.”

“No,” you whisper quietly, eyes closing as you try to ignore the pain in your chest. For a long minute, neither of you says anything. You can feel, in your bones, in the air, through the wood that Tommy’s still not telling you everything. Throwing caution to the wind you push again. “You never listened to anything John and Arthur had to say about us before, Tommy. Why did you really stop writing?”

“You stopped writing to me,” Tommy says, sadness heavy in his voice.

“I didn’t! I wrote whenever I could. I had about a months worth returned to me and then,”

“Fuck,” Tommy hisses. “After what Arthur and John said; When the letters stopped it just made sense and,” he stops, the door opens and Tommy steps through, taking your upper arms in his hands. His voice is strained, “Fuck! Let’s just forget what happened during the fuckin’ war, yeah. It’s over. None of it fuckin’ matters.”

“It mattered to me; your letters mattered to me.” You protest.

“Why?” Tommy demands.

“I thought I’d lost you. They were all I had.” You confess, dropping your eyes to the buttons on his undershirt, wishing you still had a door between you. “No one understood.”

It was true, all around you other women lost their family, fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, fiance’s and people understood, allowed them to grieve. Without a label, the deep affection you had for Tommy made no sense to others. They couldn’t understand, and you were too heartbroken to explain. To comfort yourself you had clung to the one part of him you had left, his letters, now read so often they threatened to fall to dust at any moment.

“Understand what?” Tommy pushes, a tiny hint of desperation in his voice.

You chew on your lip for a moment trying to make sense of your feelings. Tommy watches you. All this time and what exactly had affected you so deeply when you thought you had lost him still evades you. How could you tell him that you felt as if part of you had been amputated? You’d seen enough to know the pain, the feeling of loss that doesn’t end. The shock of losing a part of you, of losing something you never doubted would always be there. Like a man missing a leg, you felt unbalanced, unsure of how to participate in a world not designed for you. Men felt pain in hands and feet they no longer had, you were the same, a pain in your chest that had never gone away.

You place your hand on his chest convincing yourself again he was really there in front of you. “Us,” You whisper.

Tommy’s eyes close, hands coming to your waist pulling you closer, his forehead resting on yours. He opens his eyes again, capturing you in the blue abyss of them. Before you can lose yourself in them he kisses you, softly, hesitantly. He holds your gaze as he pulls away.

“I never stopped writing Tommy, not even after I thought you were gone.” You confess, hand coming to his cheek. Tommy presses his cheek to your palm and sighs deeply. “I missed you so much. I still wanted, needed, to talk to you.” Tommy takes your face in his hands. “Just one letter and I would have known you were alive Tommy.” You sob.

Pulling you to him Tommy holds you tight. “I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers into your hair and you can feel the truth in his words. “I never wanted to hurt you, I thought you were happy, that you were better off,”

“Why?” you ask moving enough in his embrace to see his face.

“I’m not the same, things happened in France,” Tommy’s face twists in anguish.

You reach out, hand stroking his bristled cheek, relishing the feel of his warm skin against your palm. Tommy sighs and rests his head against yours again. “None of us are the same. None of us.” You tell him. It was true, loud noises made you jump, the smell of sulphur made you nervous and the feel of mud or dirt on your hands made your skin crawl.

A silence draws out between you again, far less awkward this time. Slowly your breathing falls into sync. Your eyes close and you fall into an embrace.

“Lyra,” Tommy’s breath is warm against your ear.

You open your eyes, chewing your lip. “Mm?”

“Come home with me. Just for a few days, a holiday. Give us some more time.” Again, he takes your face in his hands, watching you intently. “I can’t say goodbye again so soon.”

\---

It’s evening by the time you get away. Hasty arrangements were made, John and Arthur going on ahead, you organising leave and packing a case.

At the station Tommy finds an empty carriage and ushers you inside, watching as you sit in the corner. Putting your suitcase up in the racks, Tommy turns, smiling as he looks down on you. He sits on the same bench, but closer to the window. He pats the space next to him invitingly. You shake your head shyly, looking out at the still crowded platform meaningfully. Tommy smirks and rolls his eyes.

You sit in silence, watching the crowds. Tommy’s hand moving closer and closer to yours until the sides of your hands brush against each other. A bolt of electricity passing through you, like a shot or a burn. But you don’t pull away. He hooks his pinkie around yours as the guard blows the whistle and the train begins to slowly pull out of the station. There’s something both silly and sincere in his action and you can’t help but smile.

As the train picks up speed and the buildings of the city start to blur Tommy tugs gently on your hand encouraging you closer. He looks around the empty carriage meaningfully when you hesitate. You relent and slide across. Tommy wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you rest your head against him. He kisses the crown of your head and rests his head against yours.

As the buildings turn to houses, Tommy strokes your hair. “I’d like to read the letters sometime, the ones you wrote me when you thought I was gone.”

You sigh deeply and shuffle a little so you can see his face. “I burnt them.”

“Oh,” You can see the question on his face before he asks it.

“Do you remember that funeral your mum and Uncle Charlie went to, the old Gypsy woman, the one in the field?”

Tommy nods. “We bunked off school and Charlie caught us.”

You smile remembering. “He answered all the questions I had about Gypsy’s.”

Tommy’s hand comes to your face, his thumb rubbing along your cheekbone “The smoke?” He asks. You nod. Tommy’s face darkens for a moment, but lightens as his eyes search yours “You thought I’d go to heaven?”

“Of course.” You say, hands coming to his face, holding it tenderly. You lean in, kissing him with the lightest of touches.

Tommy’s hand slides into your hair, holding the back of your head as he kisses you back. Your hands begin to roam, revelling in the silkiness of his shorn head, feeling the warmth of his skin and his pulse in his neck. Kisses getting firmer and needier. Tommy nips at your lip and your heart is pounding, nearly leaping out of your chest it feels so light. Tommy kisses your neck, another shock of electricity setting your skin on fire. You both move closer, hands ceaselessly exploring each other, breathing becoming ragged.

“Tickets!” A voice booms outside the door. You freeze for a moment before quickly sitting back in the seat properly. Sitting up straight like you’re on parade.

Good evening,” The conductor greets you as he opens the door of the carriage. “Tickets?” He asks, a smirk as he takes in you and Tommy. Horrified you desperately trying to straighten your clothes and fix your hair, knowing your lipstick is a mess.

Tommy, on the other hand, makes no attempt to fix his appearance simply pulling a few pounds from his pocket, “Two for Birmingham.”

“Heading home?” The conductor asks conversationally as he takes the money and exchanges them for tickets.

“Yes.” Tommy agrees as he takes the tickets and puts them in his pocket.

“Enjoy your trip.” The conductor says to Tommy, opening the door again.

“Thank you.” You say as he closes the door again.

Tommy settles back in the seat again, arm around you and pulling you closer, the frenetic energy of a moment ago gone for now “It will be good to get home.” He reflects quietly.

You snuggle into him, your hand taking his and entwining your fingers. As you listen to the gentle thud of Tommy’s heart you know that your destination doesn’t matter. Birmingham or Bayeux, you were already home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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